My son: soccer champion! (Why is my husband pushing my son so hard to be an athlete?) Part III

If you have not read My son: soccer champion! (Why is my husband pushing
my son so hard to be an athlete?) Part I, you can do so be clicking here. You can read part II by clicking here.

After Tristan went to bed, Mel said, “Tristan told
me that you are a mean Dad and that you smell like a stinky fart wrapped in poo.”

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I told him that wasn’t a nice thing to say about
his dad. But I didn’t push it too far because I wanted to get your opinion
first.”

She smiled at me and shrugged, “Maybe he’s
right.”

Mel leaned into my chest and took a sniff. I
pushed her away.

She took a step back, narrowed her eyes, folded her arms,
and gave me the Mom Look.

“Why would he say something like that?” she
asked.

All mothers have the look. It strikes fear in the
hearts of all children. I’d experienced it from a million mothers, including my
own. But what I didn’t know as a child was that this look is also used on
husbands. And sadly, it is more effective later in life because a husband has spent
years being afraid of the Mom Look. I don’t know if the Mom Look is nature
or nurture. Perhaps it is all part of a clever plan devised by women to slowly
gain power over men. Or perhaps it is some inherent talent that women are born
with and men are meant to dread. But what I do know is that Mel had it down. And she was using it on me, like she had in the past. And just like always, I
knew that she wanted the truth. And I knew that I would give it to her because
her Mom Look was all-powerful. The truth was going to be followed by a poignant
lecture that would cause me to change my actions. I could see the future, and
yet I could not change it.

Mom Look= Power!

We sat on the sofa and I came clean. I told her that what
I wanted from Tristan was for him to be accepted for playing sports. I told her
how I’d always felt like an outcast as a man because I didn’t enjoy sports. And
Mel nodded, quickly, like she often does when I tell her something she already
knows. I mentioned how I’d been pushing Tristan to be better. I told her how frustrated
I got with him for picking his nose or his butt. I went on for some time. And
after a little while, Mel placed her hand on my knee, and I stopped talking.

We sat in silence for a while. Then I said, “I just want
to be a good dad. But I don’t really know what that looks like.”

“How often did your Dad show up to practice?” Mel
asked.

“He didn’t,” I said. “He didn’t show up to anything
really. And if he did, he was usually drunk.” I reminded her of the story I
often tell of my father showing up to my sophomore parent teacher conference unannounced
and drunk. How much he embarrassed me with his slurred words, sweet smell, and sloppy
stride, and how I’d have been happier if he’d just stayed away.

“You haven’t missed a practice,” She said. “You’re a
supportive dad. You show up. You help Tristan with his cleats and other things.
I think you’re over compensating. I don’t think you need to do much more than
just be there for him.”

I thought about Tristan calling me a mean Dad, which was
the exact opposite of what I wanted. I wanted to be known as the cool dad. The knowledgeable
dad. The dad that could do anything, and be anything. Super Dad! When boys on
Tristan’s playground went back and forth about which dad could beat up another
dad, I wanted to be the undisputed victor. Mel was right. I was over
compensating.

Before the next practice, I took Tristan to Dari-Mart, a
corner store down the street from our house. More or less, it’s a lowbrow gas
station that doesn’t sell gas, but rather discounted cigarettes, dairy
products, and beer. Sadly it is his favorite place to go for treats because
they have Sponge Bob popsicles. We each got a frozen treat and then walked down
the street to the park. We didn’t bring a soccer ball. We were heading to the
swings. He wanted me to give him an underdog followed by a super push. By the
time we reached the park, we’d finished our ice cream. Tristan climbed into the
swing. I gripped the chains and ran forward, lifting him up and over my head,
and then letting him fall behind my back. Then I walked around to the back of
the swing, and gave him the super push, hard toss with both hands.

“That’s high enough!” he screamed.

He laughed for a while. And once his momentum slowed, I stood
over him while holding the chains and told him that I was sorry about pushing
him so hard to play soccer, and that I was not going to do that any more.

“I just want you to have fun,” I said.

I thought about telling him about my father. I
thought about telling him what I wanted from our relationship, about how I
wanted to be the coolest dad ever and how I wanted him to be able to talk
sports with other boys. But I didn’t. I don’t think I needed too. Tristan
smiled up at me. He looked relieved, like a huge weight had been lifted from
his shoulders.

He raised his hand to give me five, and I put my
hand down low. He smacked it hard with his open palm. Hard enough that it
stung.

“Oh!” I said. “Stinger!” I shook my hand.

Tristan laughed and I knew we were good.

I still went to all of his practices. But I didn’t say anything.
I just watched. And although he was still picking grass on occasion, he started
to pay more attention to the game. He started to smile more when he was there.
He seemed to be having more fun, and I think it’s because the pressure was off.
He didn’t have to worry about me coming down on him. He was not the best player
on the team. But I don’t think he was the worst, either. And with each
practice, I just took pride in watching him improve.

His first couple games went well. Mel and I sat on the
sidelines and cheered him on. But on the third game, the team really started to
take off. They were passing, and kicking, and all around playing like a team.
And Tristan was part of that team. And that felt good.

Just before half time, Tristan was positioned next to the
goal. He was passed the ball. And without hesitation, he turned, and kicked a
goal.

I raised my hands and cheered.

I called out, “Tristan!!!”

Tristan ran across the field, looked at me, smiled, and
pointed. I felt a burst of pride. At first I assumed it was because he kicked a
goal. But now I think it’s because the first thing he wanted was for me to know
about it. We shared a moment across the soccer field. A dewy-eyed moment. And I
have a strong feeling that years from now, both Tristan and I will give
anything to go back in time to relive it.

An equally dewy-eyed moment

Although we are not supposed to keep score at this age,
Tristan’s team won 4 to 0. Earlier in the game, a parent from an opposing team
told her child to attack the ball.

Clint Edwards is a tutor coordinator at Oregon State University. He is also the former co-host of the Weekly Reader on KMSU and a graduate of the MFA program at Minnesota State University. His writing has been listed as notable by Best American Essays, and has been published in The Baltimore Review, and through The University of North Dakota, Boston College, Emerson College, The University of South Carolina, and Minnesota State University.

Clint Edwards was blessed with a charming and spitfire wife, a video game obsessed little boy, a snarky little girl in a Cinderella play dress, and an angry baby girl. When Clint was 9-years-old his father left. With no example of fatherhood, he had to learn how to be a father and husband through trial and error. His work has been featured in Good Morning America, The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Huffington Post, Scary Mommy, The Good Men Project, Fast Company, and elsewhere. He lives in Oregon. Follow him on Facebook and Twitter.